


A Tug in the Right Direction

by ZandraGorin



Series: Tug!verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Coming Out, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, HP: EWE, Harry thinks he's a big bad Auror but really he's just a little puppy, Healer Draco, M/M, Male Slash, Oh who am I kidding, Pre-Slash, Some pining, auror!Harry, healer!Draco, lots of pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZandraGorin/pseuds/ZandraGorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throw in an overly eager Apprentice, an insufferable speccy-eyed Auror, a battalion of red-heads, and a maddeningly infuriating Head Healer, and Draco thinks that maybe his chosen career path is more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been stewing in my laptop for about a year now (or more), and I think I really need a bit more push, maybe a shove, to finally finish this. So here's to hoping that after posting this first chapter, I won't get lazy to finish writing the rest of it.
> 
> Oh, and in case you were wondering, based on my calculations, both Harry and Draco are around twenty-six years old here. Hohoho.

~:~:~:~:~  


**PART I**  
  
_"In the long run, the power of kindness can redeem_  
_beyond the power of force to destroy."_  
  
― John A. MacAulay  


~:~:~:~:~

 

 

“Apprentice?”

“Skirmish. Hit with something that keeps making the wound re-open,” The blonde girl clutching the chart supplies, “He’s lost a lot of blood but they were able to stabilize him. It wasn’t pretty.”

He had been going through the files in his office, looking through profiles in preparation for morning rounds, maybe contemplating a cup of coffee or that luscious chocolate cake that the old lady behind the canteen till favours to bring out on Wednesdays... maybe both.

It is his first day back in the morning shift, having rotated as the resident night-shift healer for the past month, and he was in the middle of Patient McIntosh’s profile when a magically enhanced voice, meant to be heard in all the Hospital rooms as loud and clear as if the person was right beside you, snapped him out of his musings.

“Healer Malfoy to room 507. Healer Malfoy to room 507...”

He had promptly closed the folder he was holding and waved it on its previous place on the stacks, made sure to remove the non-existent creases in his green robes with dark green trimmings, and hurried off to the room in question.

“I can see that,” says Draco wryly, examining the spots of dried blood on the patient’s pale face, which looked odd without the round spectacles that Draco remembers from when they were younger.

“Yes,” she continues, leaning against the wall, “Gave the healers downstairs quite a start.”

Draco frowns. The patient still looks too pale, his breathing is still a little too fast and shallow, and his filthy red and brown robes and the blood that makes portions of his hair stick together or stick up make him a sight to behold.

“Couldn’t they have at least cleaned him up a little?”

“Oh, they have,” she chuckles grimly.

Draco sighs as he tries to cover up the slight grimace on his face. He waves his wand over the motionless body. If this was better, he couldn’t dare imagine just _exactly_ how he looked like when he was dragged in here. He motions his wand in circles until he has siphoned off the remaining blood from the boy’s face. Then he mutters a cleaning spell to remove the flecks of grime and dirt that makes his exposed skin look like a collage of dots and lines.

“There,” Draco mutters when he is satisfied with his work, “That wasn’t so hard was it? Pity, how they call themselves Healers but they can’t even do such menial tasks properly.”

His Apprentice snorts. “The Healers didn’t want to touch him. They looked terrified— like they might damage him more if they laid a wand on him a second more than they absolutely had to... No, after they sorted him out, they wanted to give all the _menial_ work to the mediwitches...”

Draco feels a rather looming end to that statement. He raises an eyebrow at the way she purses her lips. “But?”

She pretends to busy herself with the chart in her hand.

“Abbott?”

Her cheeks flush. “I couldn’t leave him to the mercy of overly ecstatic mediwitches, Draco!”

“What did you do?” Draco asks slowly. He thinks he’d rather not know exactly what the girl did, but a part of him, the hugely dominant Healer-training-an-out-of-sorts-Apprentice part, thinks that he really _needs_ to know.

“You didn’t see the looks on their faces. They would have eaten him up alive!”

“Abbott—” says Draco a warning in his voice.

“Even you wouldn’t have let him suffer in such a horrid manner!”

“Really, Apprentice Abbott, what have you—”

“I took him, alright?” Abbott sputters, “I couldn’t leave him to just anyone.”

Draco takes a deep breath. “You... took him?”

The girl looks at him imploringly, not quite unlike the times she would do as Draco looks at her condescendingly for a rash decision or two— decisions that could have exploded on both their faces had he not been there to quickly avert it.

Draco closes his eyes and lets out a long, deep-suffering sigh. “Apprentice Abbott,” he mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to somehow quell the growing sense of panic in his stomach, “Please tell me that you did not just _steal_ Harry Potter from the Emergency ward.”

“I didn’t!” Abbott answers in a spectacularly indignant tone. Draco thinks she might have been about to stomp her foot, but only barely managed to restrain herself. “I did all the necessary paperwork, and I took him out of there without any form of deception whatsoever.”

Draco looks at her for a long minute, twirling his wand in his hand. The panic inside his stomach was in no way abated by the words _necessary paperwork_ as it should have been. Patients could not be released or transferred without a certified Healer’s signature on the paperwork, no matter if it was filled meticulously and to the dot, or not. “Who signed the transfer papers then?” he asks, a bad sense of foreboding stirring in the back of his mind.

Abbott’s look of indignation cleared, only to be replaced by a sheepish smile. “Healer... er, Heathers.”

“He _gave_ you Potter’s case? Willingly?”

“Yes,” she nods, shifting from one foot to another, “He actually looked quite eager to—” then her eyes grow wide, and Draco has to stop himself from laughing because he was certain that whatever sound that would escape his mouth right now would sound nothing but distressed. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

He lets out the breath he did not know he was even holding, the sense of foreboding crashing all around him in a deep sense of dread and irritation. “Yes. Oh,” Draco agrees, a grim expression on his face. _Healer Garrick sodding Heathers._

“Oh, Draco, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think.... Harry was just so... I’m sorry.”

Draco closes his eyes. Tries to call on much of his learned patience with the girl. “What’s the foremost rule you learned in your training, Apprentice?”

“Er... Save the patient?”

Draco stops himself from rolling his eyes. “The _other_ rule, Abbott.”

Hannah pauses, then says warily, “Never let matters of personal interest or bouts of emotion cloud your professional judgment.”

“And what did you just do?”

“I— I’m sorry,” Abbott mutters, eyes dropping to the floor, before she falls uncharacteristically silent.

He eyes the short girl for a long time. He cannot decide whether he is more amused or exasperated or, Merlin forbid, _guilty_ for having placed that particular expression on her face. He does feel rather fascinated though. If that’s all it took for reducing his Apprentice to silence, then he should have figured it out sooner. Then again, he supposes, having a silent, awkward Apprentice really wouldn’t be of any help to him— especially not now when he, apparently, has something to prove.

“Alright.”

Abbott blinks, her eyes betraying her surprise, “Did you just— Alright?”

“Yes, Abbott. No need to look so shocked.”

“I just... I thought you’d... argue more,” she finishes weakly.

 _It’s not as if I have much of a choice in the matter_ , Draco thinks. Sodding Heathers. He reaches for Potter’s chart, eyes skimming over choice words that could possibly help him solve this case.

Abbott shuffles closer, deeming his temper far enough from tipping over that it was safe for her to revert to her usual enthusiasm. “Can’t we just wake him?”

“We could,” Draco answers, eyes narrowing on a poorly constructed pertinent that screams out _trainee_ , in the back of his mind. “But I’d rather leave him to wake on his own.”

“And how long would that take, do you wager?”

“Be patient, Apprentice,” Draco mutters in an amused tone as he fixes his attention back to the slumbering boy (well, man, really) that was now his patient, “You’ll get your chance to play with him soon.”

Abbott rolls her eyes, but can’t quite keep the splash of colour off her cheeks. “I give him a day or two,” she offers, before starting towards the door, “Rounds in a few, Healer Malfoy.”

 

~:~:~:~:~

 

His Apprentice was wrong.

Two days have passed, and Potter still hasn’t woken up. Some of his colleagues have been by to visit and so have some of the other Weasleys, and Draco swears he has seen enough freckled red heads in the past few days to last him a lifetime.

He expects raised voices when Potter’s... family gets the news that he is to be the Golden boy’s Healer— even a few underhanded whispering and violent fists. But he is a little ways off-shocked when all he receives from them are a few nods and inquiries on Potter’s health.

It is a whole other issue, though, when the girl-Weasley comes with the Golden Boy’s sidekicks, eyes all narrowed, fingers twitching as if to grab her wand.

It doesn’t surprise him in the least, if he was being honest. The feud between their families is almost legendary and he would be kidding himself if he thinks that the death of one psychopathic Dark Lord coupled with a ‘cleared of all charges’ from the Wizengamot will be enough a bridge to cross over their issues. Or something like that.

Of course, he doesn’t want to be _friends_ with the freckled red heads. Salazar, he doesn’t think he could handle that. But they aren’t in school anymore and Draco knows better now.

“Why are _you_ his Healer?” Weasley (Weaselbee, to him, still) asks with an ugly expression of distaste on his face. He doesn’t really do much to rile him. Still, he can’t help resist the urge to roll his eyes at the stubborn prat.

“It was either that or let him bleed to death,” Draco answers, not entirely truthful but not exactly lying either, “I’d imagine you wouldn’t want the latter, would you?”

Weasley sputters, and Draco isn’t all that surprised when he just stays silent and possibly fuming. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care to look again. What does surprise Draco though, is Granger’s admonishing look, and a muttered “Ronald, Ginny,” in warning. She turns to him, eyes narrowed, distrustful yet speculative, “No one wanted to take him? Is that what you’re saying?”

 _Not for the lack of trying_ , Draco thinks. Because he did try to shift Potter’s care to another Healer, even after assuring Abbott that he was quite alright with the assignment. Some of his fellow Healers had been more forthcoming than the rest but as soon as they heard wind that ‘ _the Potter case_ ’ didn’t land on Draco’s hand by chance, heard that Healer Heathers had him on there specifically... well. Whatever chances Draco had to be relieved of Potter went soaring straight out the window. Or straight into Heathers’ beefy hands.

 _Not that it ever left there_ , Draco thinks bitterly.

He doesn’t bother to correct Granger, though, thinking that it would cause unnecessary glee on the three Gryffindors if they were ever to know that Draco didn’t want this as much as they didn’t want him to have it. Of course they would find it amusing— that Draco was forced into this and was stuck with Potter even if he fought tooth and nail not to be. Draco would, if their situations were reversed.

“It wasn’t so much as no one wanted take him as it was that they wanted to risk their necks in the event that they couldn’t save him.”

“And you would?”

Abruptly, he remembers red-hot tongues of fire lashing out, eating everything in its path. He remembers thoughts of dying and of pain, the bolts of exhaustion as he tries to outrun the wild, flickering embers. He remembers that when he’s just about to lose hope, to let the fatigue take over, and to just let the flames engulf him, a lone hand stretches out from above him, urging him to reach out and grab on. And when he does grab hold of the strong hand he just about cries with relief and gratitude.

Draco clears his throat, and answers. “It’s my job.”

Granger’s eyes narrow even further at that but Draco doesn’t squirm under her gaze. No, he most definitely does not. She seems to consider him, seems to search for something, scrutinizing, weighing something in her head. Finally, Granger nods. “Harry will appreciate this, either way,” she says. Then she fixes her attention back to her best friend and this leaves Draco just a little bit bowled over.

All in all, it is an oddly interesting visit which ends with a few _When is he going to wake up?_ and a particularly amusing _He’s not dead, idiot. I’m pretty sure Harry doesn’t appreciate being manhandled like that._ Not that the statement itself was particularly amusing, nor did Draco even allow Weasley to manhandle his patient when he was in such a delicate condition, but the backhand that Weaselbee receives from Granger— that just about made his day. Even with the Weaselette glaring daggers at him.

Draco is positive that Potter is alright, but as the fourth day draws to a close, he can’t help but feel a trickle of anxiety. Just a bit. Perfectly normal for a Healer. He is even almost certain that Potter is aware that Draco is his Healer and is purposefully taking his time in waking up just to spite him. The bastard.

Still, Draco waves his wand and does all the needed spells to take Potter’s vitals. Worries soothed for the moment by the relatively stable outcome of his spells, Draco makes to leave, thinking of how Gunther will be squawking for his supper as soon as he hears the rustle of his owner’s coat.

A throaty cough makes him stop in his tracks.

He turns, heart practically leaping out of his chest as he sees Potter struggling to get up. “Don’t!” Draco exclaims as he rushes to Potter’s side.

Potter startles and looks up, eyes squinting in an effort to make out who is in the room with him. Even in the hazy fog of sleep, he is still able to look both defensive and threatening all at once. “Who’s that?”

Draco reaches for the repaired glasses on the drawer and hands them to his patient. “Here.”

Potter blinks, surprise evident as he looks at Draco’s face. “Malfoy?”

“Stay put,” Draco orders, one hand forcing Potter to lie down while the other retrieves his wand.

“Where am I?” Potter asks, voice weak from the long sleep but still demanding.

“The shrieking shack.”

Potter glares. Or at least tries to.

“I’m kidding. Goodness, where do you think you are? You’re in the hospital.”

Potter’s eyes flicker— a quick sweep of his surroundings. Apparently satisfied with what he sees there, he visibly relaxes. The tension leaves his neck as his head thumps back against his pillow. “I’m in St. Mungo’s?”

“Yes.”

Potter glances around again, now his eyes are searching, “My wand?”

“It will be returned to you at the moment of your release.”

“What? Why can’t I have it back _now_?” Potter asks, evidently uneasy.

“I’m afraid it’s standard protocol. A patient isn’t allowed his or her wand for the duration of their stay in the hospital.”

Potter begins to rise and immediately and Draco’s hand shoots out. He grasps Potter’s shoulder, keeping him from any sudden motion. “Stop moving, Potter.”

Potter looks as if he will argue but then he winces as he tries to twist his arm out of Draco’s reach. He falls back to the pillow with a resigned sigh and Draco slackens his grip. “Alright... I’m in the hospital. And you’re here. Why are you...,” Harry blinks, taking in the lime-green robes as if only now registering their existence, and his eyes widen slightly, “Are you my Healer?”

“No, I’m a stripper. Happy birthday,” Draco sighs at the blank look he receives, “Can you open your robes, please?”

“I didn’t know you were a Healer.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, isn’t there? Robes please, Potter.”

Potter continues to stare. Then a small smile stretches his cracked lips as he finally unfastens his robes. “A Healer. You’re a Healer.”

Draco looks at him weirdly. No matter the years that have passed, the dolt is still as odd as ever. “I think I may need to consider permanent spell damage.”

Potter scoffs. “Magnificent to see you too, Malfoy.”

Draco ignores this and waves his wand, watching as different colours envelope Potter’s body.

“Why are you turning me into a Christmas tree?”

“Just a couple of diagnostic spells. Stay put, will you?” Draco mutters, his eyes not straying from the Gryffindor’s chest as a particularly violent shade of purple flashes before his eyes. The light is diffuse at first, before it narrows into a thin line and envelopes the gash that trails from the right side of his chest all the way down to his hips. He frowns. “Potter,” Draco puts on his _I’m-a-Healer-so-I-demand-respect_ face, “Do you have any idea why they brought you here?”

Of course Potter ignores the look completely.

“Oh, I’m pretty certain that it’s nothing more than a courtesy visit. It’s not like I’m injured or anything,” Potter answers wryly.

“My Apprentice said you were in a skirmish,” Draco offers, ignoring the dry humour, “Can you tell me what you remember from the incident?”

Potter scratches his head and winces. “Er, I remember sending up a shield charm for Ron... That left my flank open, that was stupid,” Potter trails off, muttering. Draco clears his throat and Potter blinks, “Er, right. My flank was open and Ron just warned me, but—"

“Weaselbee warned you? So he saw that someone was going to attack you? Why didn’t he do anything?”

“His hands were pretty full at the moment. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had to cast for him, would I?” Potter snaps, eyes flashing, “And don’t call him that.”

Draco’s eye twitches and he has to remind himself that Potter is his patient— his very _injured_ patient— and that he is not at Hogwarts, “Go on.”

“Like I said,” Potter sighs, “Ron warned me but I didn’t turn around in time. I got hit and I was... well. I got hit by something. I suppose. A spell. I don’t know what kind, just... a spell."

“Articulate little thing you are, aren’t you?” Draco muses.

“Sarcastic little thing _you_ are, aren’t you?” Potter counters, almost sneering and no, that look does not become him at all.

Draco tries to ignore the statement and the flash of green eyes. Potter’s eyes have always been _too_ green. He inspects his wand, just for something to do, before finally stowing it away in his robes. “Be that as it may, you’re stuck with me until we sort this all out,” he points out.

“Unfortunately,” Potter mutters.

“You’ll find a lot of people who are willing to contest that,” he admits that that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but Potter doesn’t need to know that, “But I’m not here to argue with you, Potter, no matter how appealing that may be. For now, at least, the cut is still closed and—”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Potter glances down, slightly startled— as if sensing the presence of the cut for the first time since waking up.

Draco bites his tongue and breathes in deeply. He thinks that Potter is lucky to be his patient because he really wouldn’t be this forthcoming otherwise. But then he supposes, he wouldn’t have had to be in this mess and continuously test his restraint if Potter wasn’t under his care at all. Suddenly he doubts if accepting the case, albeit very grudgingly, had been the right thing to do.

Then again, when it comes to Harry Potter, when does Draco ever do the right thing?

“See, Potter, a simple cut would have been simple enough to heal. Even you could have healed that with your eyes closed. Or maybe not,” Draco adds as an afterthought, ignoring the way Potter scowls, “A regular cursed cut would have been harder, but still it would have been manageable.”

Potter’s frown deepens. “Are you saying that you can’t heal me?”

“No. Of course not.”

“No, you can’t heal me, or no, you’re not saying that?” he asks, now a little impatient.

Draco has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m saying that you’re under _my_ care because that’s not a regular cursed cut. Whoever cursed you didn’t do it properly.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Potter points out, but doesn’t probe the issue any further. Draco thinks he wouldn’t have been able to answer him honestly, either way. Potter’s hand moves to hover over the nasty looking gash, but when the movement causes him to grimace, he seems to think twice about touching it. “Is that bad?” he frowns, “That I wasn’t, er, cursed properly?”

“Fortunately for you, that your opponent was an incompetent git with an aim of a drunk donkey was lucky. Otherwise you’d have been dead within minutes.”

Potter’s eyes move back to his, a curious sort of amusement making the dull look disappear, and Draco immediately looks away. He pretends to examine the cut with narrowed eyes. He almost misses the way Potter’s lips twitches. “Drunk donkey?”

Draco frowns. “That’s all you got from everything I said, wasn’t it?”

“Dying is an occupational hazard,” Potter shrugs. “So what’s the problem, then?”

Draco forgets himself for a moment and stares.

It is easy to forget how this troublesome, careless man is the saviour of the wizarding world. But then he would act so cavalier, talking about death— his own death— so breezily and somehow Draco is reminded again. This man has faced death, over and over again, and he is not afraid to die. Draco knows a part of him will always be awed by that, but Potter doesn’t need to know that. Draco clears his throat.

“That cut should not have had the capacity to heal, Potter. It appears that the spell that hit you was a dark spell that was designed with the sole purpose of making your enemy bleed to death,” Draco explains.

Potter’s mumbles something under his breath, something that Draco doesn’t quite catch. But from the way Potter’s face has paled and with the way his green eyes have suddenly latched on Draco’s chest, Draco thinks that he knows just what is running through the Chosen One’s mind at the moment.

A desolate lavatory. Curses and anger and helplessness. And blood— lots of blood— staining robes and linoleum and hands and memories. Draco’s chest seems to tingle. He can’t help but wonder whether this is his retribution after all those years but he erases the thought as soon as it plants itself in his mind. Potter wasn’t the only one at fault that night, and that was ages ago. It shouldn’t matter now.

Draco shakes his head a little, clearing the last of the bitter thoughts away, and continues, “Like I told you, it wasn’t cast properly. So we were able to close the wound for the meantime.”

“For the meantime?”

Draco nods. “The spell has to be re-applied a few hours or so, but it’s doing the job so,” Draco shrugs, “The problem, Potter, is how we’re going to keep it shut,” Potter’s frown deepens as he weighs this in his mind. Draco wonders whether the silence echoed comprehension or befuddlement. He asks.

“Of course, I understand,” Potter answers, bristling just a bit, “I’d appreciate you to stop belittling my intellectual ability, Malfoy.”

Draco shrugs. “Very well. As for now I’d advise you to refrain from unnecessary movements to decrease the risk of the cut re-opening. The bleeding will be harder to contain the next time around,” He waves his wand with just a slight flourish, and Potter’s robes fold neatly over his chest. “I’ll be back later. Try not to bleed to death while I’m gone.”

“Can’t make promises, I’m afraid.”

“Potter,” Draco warns.

“I’ll try not to soak the sheets,” Potter mutters wryly.

“Fan- _fucking_ -tastic,” Draco mutters as he leaves the room, wondering whether Potter really can keep himself together for more than a few minutes.

 

~:~:~:~:~

 

The alarm rings in Draco’s office a few hours later just as he was writing a report on Patient Kardiff. He looks to the wall of room numbers under his care and tries not to roll his eyes as he sees the _507_ blinking in painfully bright, neon green.

_Why am I not surprised?_

He instantly jumps to his feet and rushes to Potter’s room, his wand in one hand and a string of profanities on his lips.

“Potter, I told you not to—” He pauses on the doorway, lets another soft “fuck” leave his lips and rushes forward.

Just what the hell did Potter do?

The Auror lies crumpled on the ground, a fast and steady stream of blood pooling around his body. The wound has re-opened. He is already turning pale, his hand is already growing cold, and if the cut isn’t shut in a few, the Golden Boy might go into shock. And die. And Draco’s arse will be fried.

He kneels next to Potter’s body, opens his robes with a flick of his wand, and tries not to cringe at the thought of blood staining his favourite pair of trousers. Draco’s wand movements are brisk— performing spell after spell like it is second nature to him as he tries to quell the bleeding. Where the fuck is Abbo—

“Harry, are—”

“What took you so long?” Draco grits out, “Stasis, now.”

Abbott complies, kneels next to Draco and holds the spell with a steady hand as Draco waves and jabs and flicks his wand. They both watch as the wound seals again— as the skin stretch, then pull together, some invisible element holding the previously open gap, close.

“Release,” Draco mutters, and Abbott lets out a deep breath as she drops the spell.

She siphons the spilled blood on the floor and does an acceptable cleaning spell on Potter’s robes. Her wrist flicks and Potter is robed again, without any trace of what happened aside from his too pale face, and cracked glasses.

“What happened?”

Draco’s eyes narrows. “We’ll find out in a moment. But first, get him some blood replenishing potion will you?”

“I’m on it.”

He puts a hand on Potter’s chest, feeling the faint beating of his heart. He waves his wand, the faint red glow flash through Potter’s robes over his heart, and the violent shade of purple he saw earlier on the cut now glows in an almost eerie black. The cut is still fresh and the curse is thriving on it. He needs to figure out how to dissipate the blasted thing, and soon. And he needs Potter to wake up or... he shakes his head and points his wand over the motionless boy’s heart and murmurs, “Enervate.”

Draco lets out a deep breath as Potter stirs. “What did I say about— stay put for a little while, Potter— about bleeding to death while I was gone?”

“Didn’t,” Potter argues, his voice hoarse, “And I didn’t soak the sheets either.”

Draco mutters. “Yes, you soaked my trousers instead.”

Potter snorts. Winces. And Draco is unable to stop his face from heating up.

“Oh, how mature of you,” Draco mutters, “Goodness, stay still, will you?” he warns as he starts to levitate his patient onto the bed.

“Wasn’t saying anything,” Potter murmurs.

Draco hears the amusement in the boy’s tone and sighs. “What were you even doing out of bed?”

Potter has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Oh, you know. I just fancied a little stroll.”

“You know full well that you are in no condition to get out of bed,” says Draco in the most patient tone he could muster. He hates using that tone. He feels like a tolerant mother talking to her child. “You should have summoned a mediwitch, or wizard, if you were in need of anything.”

“I’m fine,” Potter mutters, eyes sliding to a close.

“Not bloody likely,” Draco frowns. He waves his wand and fixes the crack on Potter’s glasses before tapping it slightly, “Don’t go to sleep. You need a blood replenishing potion.”

Potter grunts, but his eyes remain closed.

Draco’s eyes narrows. He has dealt with difficult patients before— has an interesting variety of them and he is able to see them through— but this is Harry Potter. Potter his old school rival with a penchant for tugging his strings and breaking his patience, and patient or not, he has always, _always_ , been a pain in the arse, and Potter being indisposed, even mildly, does nothing to change that. Makes it worse, maybe.

Draco curses under his breath, wondering just what Abbott is doing, taking so long just to retrieve a bloody potion. Just as he is thinking about the odds of the cut re-opening if he was to pinch Potter’s arm just to keep him awake, the door slams open, and reveals a very frazzled and disgruntled Hannah Abbott.

“Sorry,” says Abbott, handing Draco one vial and placing a second on the bedside drawer, “There was a... disturbance.”

“Should I ask?”

“No.”

“Right,” says Draco, turning his attention to Potter who fails to veil the curiosity in his eyes as he gazes at the two of them. He looks a little surprised but when his gaze remains on Abbott and her own lime-green robes with lighter green trimmings, and a pleasant little smile tugs his lips upward, which Abbott answers with her own. Draco clears his throat. “Here you are then. Be sure to drink every drop.”

Draco blinks in surprise as Potter nods, and takes the vial without question. Well, there. He doesn’t have to be so difficult does he?

Potter tips the contents of the vial down his throat and sports a grimace. Sputtering and coughing, the sleep in his eyes dims just a little. “I’m not very fond of that potion,” he remarks, voice slightly raspy.

Draco finds himself nodding absently. Already the potion is taking its effect— Potter’s face is slowly flushing with colour, his lips is losing its paleness, and if Draco cares to touch him, he is sure that his hand will meet a slow, suffusing warmth that will later fill Potter’s entire body.

“Vitals are stable, Healer,” Abbott advises, ending her wand movements with a flourish.

“Another dose before supper would suffice, I’d wager,” Draco murmurs, “So long as he doesn’t do anything stupid to make the cut re-open.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t, would you Harry?” says Hannah, in a voice that makes Draco want to roll his eyes.

Potter smiles at her, eyes shining even with the haze of threatening sleep, “’Course not.”

Draco suppresses the mild spur of irritation that makes its way to his chest. SoPotter can be all docile and friendly to his Apprentice but he couldn’t extend the same courtesy to his _Healer_? Suddenly he remembers why he hated Potter when they were younger. _Saint Potter_ , who thought he was too good for anyone. Too good for Draco. Too good to become his friend. Too good to breathe the same air as him. The arrogant, big-headed, little—

“...Healer?”

Draco blinks. Abbott is looking at him, inquisitively.

Draco’s ears tingle. “I beg your pardon?”

Abbott’s lips twitch. “I said it’s about time for the afternoon rounds, Healer Malfoy.”

Draco nods stiffly, his ears still slightly pink. “Yes, of course. Come on, then.” He pauses, hesitating, then says to Potter as an afterthought, “I’ll check on you later.”

Potter merely lets his eyes close and nods.

He frowns and heads for the door without waiting for Abbott. He knows that she will follow. The door clicks to a shut behind him, but not before he hears his Apprentice mutter something to Potter, voice light and amused, and Potter’s answering, sleep-laced but undeniably friendly, chuckle.

Draco grits his teeth and stomps off. _Stupid, fucking, Harry_ bloody _Potter._

 

~:~:~:~:~

 

Draco stops short on the doorway as his eyes rest on the long, red hair. He frowns as he watches small hands softly brush away black hair from the scarred forehead. And then he feels a surge of annoyance as he hears a “ _Wake up, please”_ in hushed, soft tones.

He clears his throat. “You’ll wake him up if you keep that up.”

Ginger hair flies as her head twists to look at him. Brown eyes betray irritation. A cool mask trying to hide displeasure. “Isn’t that what we want to happen, Malfoy? For Harry to wake up? Or am I missing something here?”

Draco narrows his eyes at her implication, but ignores it all the same. “He already woke up.” And he supposes he would be awake now because of the sheer volume of Girl-Weasley’s voice were it not due to the dose of blood replenishing potion Draco forced on him again earlier in the morning.

He sees her fingers tighten around Potter’s hand. He moves closer to the head of his bed.

“He woke up?”

Draco nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t bother telling us?”

Draco breathes out and wills his patience to see this encounter through. He comes just a bit closer, enough to make the Weaselette eye him with distaste that he blatantly savours and then disregards, and starts his inspection. “Telling _you_ would have been particularly difficult, seeing as you were not here,” _Weaselette,_ “I did, however, inform Granger and Weasley. As for them not telling you— that is out of my hands.”

Girl-Weasley narrows her eyes suspiciously. Draco carries on with his inspection, ignoring the way her sharp eyes survey him. Then, to his surprise, she visibly relaxes and lets her gaze fall on the sleeping man in front of them.

“Thank Merlin,” she exclaims, then softly, “Stop making me worry, you git.”

Draco gives his wand a flourish and starts to check on Potter’s vitals. He ignores the startled brown eyes as colours envelope his patient’s body.

“How is he, then?”

He tries not to frown as, yet again, the gash in Potter’s chest lights up in a dark shade of indigo. “He’s stable.”

He feels the tension in the air as the Weaselette draws a deep breath and her eyes snap to him, “But?”

“He’s stable, but the wound is not. We’ve yet to find a way to close it up permanently.”

“Permanently? It opened up again?”

“...Yes.”

“When?”

“A few hours after he woke up.”

He answers what he can. He notes how the displeasure in Girl-Weasley’s face is starting to falter and is a little surprised when, after telling her how Potter almost bled himself to death, she rolls her eyes, and gives Potter’s slumbering form a long suffering sigh, “Harry, you prat. You really have a death wish don’t you?” She looks back at him. “How long will it take, then? Shutting the cursed thing?”

Draco hesitates. “It would help if we actually know what curse hit him. I’ve been looking into possible—”

“ _You’ve_ been looking?”

“Yes,” Draco starts, suddenly defensive at the girl’s tone, “It’s not as easy as it sounds you know, Weasele— Weasley.”

She raises an eyebrow at his almost-slip of the tongue but surprisingly says nothing. “No, of course it’s not easy,” she agrees and frowns in distaste, “What I meant was that, why are you doing it alone?”

Draco blinks. Startled.

Her frown deepens. “Don’t you have anyone to help you?”

“My Apprentices are helping me, of course,” he bristles.

“And how many Apprentices do you have?”

Draco purses his lips for a moment before jutting out his chin and answers, “Two,” willing the Weaselette to not even think of antagonizing him.

“Just the three of you? Malfoy, that’d take ages.”

“If you’re implying that we’re not good enough for you then I suggest—”

“Shut up. You misunderstand me. You may be great at your job at any other circumstances, but with just the three of you...”

Draco’s wand arm wavers. He is not pleased at being cut off so rudely; well, he is not pleased at being told to ‘shut up’ by a little Weasel and she would have heard a mouthful from him if she didn’t just... Was that a compliment? He feels the world tilt slightly.

“Have you even asked anyone for help? I know Hermione would be thrilled to—”

“We don’t need help,” he snaps, realizing he has zoned out and has allowed himself to be talked over (no matter if she did compliment him or not). And that was not acceptable. Not at all.

It doesn’t help that she has unknowingly struck a nerve. A strong pang of loss resounds over his body as sudden thoughts of kind, murky brown eyes and tufted, greying hair swims around his mind.

 _Healer Fornswith_. _He’d know what to do._

His mentor was a curious bloke, slightly whimsical, but he had always, _always_ been there for Draco no matter the odds of having an ex-Death Eater as his Apprentice.

“Are you really letting your pride stand in the way of your work? Shouldn’t Harry come first?”

Draco gives his wand a final wave and looks at the girl, pensively. He is silent for a few seconds, observing. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugs, but the look in her eyes is far from being cavalier. It is firm and determined and makes her look just a bit more intimidating, and Draco is reminded of a particularly nasty bat-bogey hex. “I want Harry to get better. We all do. If it means working alongside you, then have at it.”

He pauses, considering her words. It is true that with just him and Abbott and Pensley, Merlin knows how long before that wound is shut permanently. But working with a Weasley (well, _Weasleys_ , really) and possibly Granger... he doesn’t know if it will end up in a blood bath or in one brilliant plan that will mercifully rid him of Potter sooner.

_Never let matters of personal interest or bouts of emotion cloud your professional judgment._

He eyes Potter’s sleeping frame, notes that he is looking entirely too pale again. Making a mental note to bring some blood replenishing potion before gets off from duty, he gestures for the Weaselette to follow him out the door.He leans against the frame and crosses his arms.

“Though we have yet to identify the spell, the analysis on Potter showed that it was designed to cut deeply into the body and resist any attempts at sealing. The wound is shut, for the moment, because the regular sealing charm is being re-casted over a span of a few hours, but any sudden, forceful movements on Potter’s part will cause the bleeding to start again. And the more he makes the cut re-open, the harder it will be to contain the next time around.”

“Good luck with that,” she mutters under her breath.

Draco smiles grimly. “Potter doesn’t seem to be able to wrap his head around the idea of self-preservation very well. Therefore, though the wound is shut, his condition is critically at risk if he continues to disregard the necessary precautions I’ve been trying to drill into his mind.”

The girl is shaking her head slightly. “No one’s been able to get through that stubborn skull of his. Ever. I doubt you’d somehow miraculously get to him,” she coughs, “No offense.”

Draco inclines his head, “None taken.”

She huffs, casting a disgruntled look on the door to Potter’s room, as if willing it to cross the solid wall and smack Boy Wonder on the head. “Well, we’re fucked.”

Draco thinks he just about fails to hide the slight twitch of his lips. “Not quite yet. Not until I say so.”

She raises her eyebrows at him; eyes scrutinizing the lime green robes, narrowing at the dark green trimmings, hovering over the emblem of a crossed wand and bone over his chest, before coming to rest on his face. Draco suddenly feels as if she could see right through him— through every crack and ripple that his usually stoic face cannot cover. And maybe, just maybe, Draco is starting to understand what could have possibly drawn Potter to this slight witch with no other ostentatiously overt features other than the strong, warm, determined brown eyes that now pierce Draco’s cold, hard grey ones.

To Draco’s immense surprise, she nods. “Not until you say so.”

 

~:~:~:~:~

 

Draco sighs as he plops down on his favourite chair, craning his neck this way and that. It has been a long day. He’s just about to close his eyes when—

Poof! “ _Rrrrawk,_ _rawwwwk_.”

Gunther hobbles and fastens his eyes on Draco.

“ _Rawk, rawk, rawwwk._ ”

“Demanding little thing, aren’t you?” Draco murmurs.

“ _Raaaaaawk!”_ saysGunther as he nibbles slightly on his trousers to get his point across.

“You’re not the only one who’s hungry, you know.”

Nibble, nibble. Nudge.

Draco breathes out. He is tired out of his wits, but Gunther shouldn’t have to suffer his bad mood. “Alright, alright, I’m getting up. Bloody bird.”

He reaches for the topmost cupboard and sets on his task; he opens the can of food and pours it into Gunther’s bowl. He then sets the bowl on the floor and lets Gunther gobble up his icky, mashed-up, atrocious looking thing in content silence.

Draco sighs. Again.

The day is not much different than that of his usual but he feels the weary drain slither into his bones, and it is all he can do not to plop his head on the table and just retire there for the night.

He is exhausted, mentally and physically. He has done more _stasis_ charms than he cares to count which always leaves him just a bit out of sorts, and his... talk with Potter’s girlfriend, although relatively (and surprisingly) civil, doesn’t help the tension that has been coiling his muscles and straining his nerves the past few days. He is grudgingly grateful for her offer, and to some extent, it is a relief that Granger is also in it to help. Not that he’d admit that to anyone.

It was the right thing to do as a Healer, to acquiesce, for his patient’s speedy recovery. But the Malfoy in him, the one with childhood jealousy and schoolboy prejudice really can’t help but doubt if it was the _sane_ thing to do. The Slytherin in him considers it as a sign of weakness, accepting the hand that was offered to him— a hand that is tarnished and impure, a hand of a blood traitor...

Gunther _rawks_ at his meal appreciatively while he clacks on the floor.

Draco shuts his eyes. _No_ , he thinks. Those times are over. Those times are behind him.What’s important now is doing his job properly and upholding the honour of his profession. What’s important now is the life of his patient.

Draco snorts.

Fucking Potter. Fucking wound. Fucking drunk donkey.

He opens his eyes blearily and groans. There is still work to be done and he can’t sleep yet, no matter that he is ready to collapse on the cold floor and convert Gunther into his personal headrest. Trust that it would be Harry Potter that makes him miserable, still.

Fighting the urge to close his eyes again, Draco gets up and grabs a sandwich from his refrigerator. Casting a decent warming charm on it, he takes a bite of the sticky, gooey mess, and eyes it distastefully. _Whatever gets me through the night_ , he thinks, biting back a grimace as he takes another mouthful. Giving Gunther a light pat on the head, he makes his way out of the kitchen.

Just imagining the amount of books that he has to rifle through, through the night, makes him even more exhausted. The soft mattress upstairs is practically calling his name, tempting him with its warmth and promise of a good, long sleep, but he resists.

He trudges to his study and waves his wand at the unlit fireplace, sending tendrils of flame shooting up the wooden base, and making it light the room up wonderfully. He eyes the numerous shelves containing an assortment of books— massive volumes, tiny paperbacks, colorful spines— looking for titles that may provide some idea as to what curse hit Potter, and what spell can be used to reverse it. Although he has some hazy idea on the collection of curses that could have debilitated Boy Wonder, he knows he cannot risk performing a counter-curse that might aggravate his condition, or worse, make the wound open up completely.

Of course, it would make it immensely easier for him to do his job if Weasley and his incompetent group of Aurors manage to catch the fiend and worm out what spell he used, but when has Weasley ever really made it a point to make Draco’s life a little easier? If it were anyone else but his best friend who has managed to stumble under Draco’s care, the freckled faced git would be jumping up and down and laughing belligerently at the state of Draco’s distress.

Draco is on his own.

 _No_ , Draco thinks. For once, since Healer Fornswith’s demise, he isn’t alone.

Even though a couple of gingers, a bushy haired know-it-all and two Apprentices who are at times, well in over their heads, make up an unlikely set, they are still there, and they will still be of help to Draco whenever the circumstance calls for it. Of course, it isn’t Draco they are helping. They are helping _Potter_ , and Draco has to berate himself for even meandering into that dangerous place in his mind for even a second.

Finger running along the collection of books, he takes down _The Complete Anthology of Counter-curses and Spell Reversals: A Healer’s Companion_ and places it on his table, beside the half-eaten sandwich. He’s in the process of deliberating whether taking down _The Dark Arts: Its Sorrows and Sensibilities_ is worth his time when a loud _poof_ alerts him of Gunther’s arrival.

“ _Rawk._ ”

Draco hums in agreement. The sandwich does look disgusting.

The pitter-patter of Gunther’s steps follow him as he brings more books down to consult and, without even looking at the bird, Draco can feel the impatience coming off him in waves.

“I’m not forcing you to stay with me, you know,” Draco mutters at one particularly loud _whoosh_ of its relatively useless wings.

“ _Rrrrawk.”_

“You’re free to leave. Really.”

“ _Rrawk rawk rrrawwwk._ ”

“Why are you complaining? You’re not the one who’s going to have to go through all of them,” Draco points out.

“ _Raaaawk_ _Rawk!”_

Draco frowns in thought. “Hmm. Yes, that as well.”

Gunther flaps his wings, hobbles slightly, and plops down in front of the fireplace with a loud, resigned _thump_.

Draco eyes the big, hopeless lump with a grave expression before setting down the pile in his arms beside the other books he has managed to haul, and settling himself behind his desk. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance to escape,” he says firmly.

Cursing scars and green eyes and untidy black hair, he opens _Curses:_ _Deep, Dark, and Dangerous_ , and resolves himself to the long night he had ahead of him.


	2. Chapter 2

~:~:~:~:~  


**PART II**  


_“I like flaws. I think they make things interesting.”_  
  
― Sarah Dessen  


~:~:~:~:~

   


“You’re needed on the first floor, Healer Malfoy.”

Draco stops in his tracks and turns to the mediwitch whom he finds too close for comfort. “First floor?”

He exchanges looks with his Apprentice— Pensley, this time— who, in the process of turning a page on the chart he is holding, has also stopped. Rarely is he called out of his own floor to venture to the General Ward but when he is, it is neither for his specialization nor for his mere company, and is always by the same person.

“By who’s request?” he asks, out of courtesy more than curiosity. He thinks he already knows anyway, and the mediwitch’s answer does not disappoint.

“Healer Heathers, sir,” she supplies.

He bites back a sigh. This could not be any good. He offers his most polite smile to the mediwitch who he doesn’t really care for enough to solicit a name, and motions for Pensley to carry on with the morning rounds without him.

Draco really dislikes the sight of the General Ward, not to mention the smell; the combination of blood, and sweat and other body fluids, and the hospital’s own brand of citrus-something freshener really just does not mix, and the result of the horrible blend is Draco’s face looking more pinched than it should be. He’s also forgotten just how crowded it was here— Medis and Apprentices and Trainees either all swarming around the patients or their respective Healers— seeing as it’s been four years since he’s _actually_ worked on this particular floor.

He doesn’t miss it one bit... which isn’t really a surprise, if he is to think about it. The only people who have made this floor bearable are either dead, or on the other, higher floors as well. Not many people choose to stay in the General Ward after all... not after the, ah, administrative changes. He can’t dare imagine anyone who’d willingly want to see Healer Heathers day after day, after all.

It was rather difficult to find the Healer with all the people swarming about, and it takes him a good five minutes to locate the red-haired wizard, tufts of hair lined with grey. His smile is in place and his hands are shoved in his pocket, ready to clench in an attempt at self-control at a moment’s notice.

“Healer Heathers?” Draco stops just a few feet away from him, and he is not surprised the bugger doesn’t even acknowledge him at first. “You called for me?” he tries again, mentally counting— _one, two, three._..

It was quite saddening really. Heathers had such a pleasant looking face. Too bad it was overshadowed by his utter lack of finesse and refinement, more so by whatever words left his mouth.

“Ah, Healer Malfoy. Took you long enough,” Heathers turns with the familiar look of disinterest he seems to automatically adopt around Draco. And Draco is certain it’s just with him— he’s seen the bloke interact with other colleagues after all, even with his inferiors, and by this point in his career, he’s quite certain that Heathers reserves that look especially for him. “Still no sense of urgency I see,” he muses as he starts to walk, clearly expecting that Draco would tail after him like some low-level Apprentice. Draco sighs inwardly and keeps pace with him, trying not to drown out whatever he’s yapping about. “You’re in fifth, aren’t you? Dark Arts Reversals... Quite a bad mix, moving at that sedate pace... given the urgency of the line of your specialization...”

“Quite,” Draco echoes, and he pats himself on the back for not grinding his teeth. Terrible habit, that. He tries again. “You called for me, Healer?”

He watches as Heathers swishes his wand to part the curtain in front of them. What is subsequently revealed is an unconscious young man with an arm—at least Draco assumes it’s an arm—covered in furry little hair things that... did that just move on its own?

“Hmm,” Heathers releases a curious little sound which Draco decides sounds more intrigued than concerned. “You know why I called you down here, Healer Malfoy. Let’s skip all the pleasantries shall we? I’m a very busy man.”

Draco stops himself from biting out a sarcastic remark. He really doesn’t have the time for this. He has rounds to do and treatment plans to formulate. And Potter can still open up like a bloody fountain with one wrong twist of an arm. Or leg. “I wouldn’t assume to know why, Healer Heathers.”

Heather’s wand slices through the air, and the bright colour of a diagnostic spell flashes before Draco’s eyes. For a moment, there is only silence, and Draco thinks that he’s being ignored again. He doesn’t really know which he prefers at this very moment. Another flick of his wrist and, “How is Auror Potter’s case coming along?”

Of course. Of _bloody_ course this is about Potter. Even lying in bed and partly sliced open, Potter still manages to ruin his day. “Auror Potter is stable,” he answers grudgingly, “Though we have yet to find a more... permanent solution to—”

“Still no treatment plan, Healer?”

Draco bristles slightly.

It’s been almost a fortnight since Potter was brought in and despite laborious hours of looking and looking for something, _anything_ , which might help his case, Draco is still hopelessly stuck to having absolutely zero tricks under his sleeve. Potter’s still under strict instruction to not bleed himself to death but despite Draco’s increasingly frustrated reminders, the cut has opened twice more since the last episode and each time has taken longer and harder to close.

 _Potter’s still an arse_ , Draco thinks to himself, but he cannot ignore the growing concern for the prat’s life. From what he sees, it’s either Potter truly trusts his capabilities to heal him and in extension trusts _him_ (which Draco doesn’t have the time or patience or strength to even think about right now) or it’s that Potter doesn’t care much for what becomes of him at all were the cut to evolve into something untreatable (which he also cannot be arsed to think about).

Whatever the case, Potter seems to still be in high spirits and has even bothered to engage Draco in surprisingly civil conversation whenever he checks in. This leaves him a bit confused and wrong-footed, and Draco does not take lightly to that.

“I’ve run all the standard tests on him and all of them came out negative. And Potter’s not taking the situation seriously no matter—“

“Ah, ah,” Heathers cuts across him. Again. “Are you suggesting we put the blame on the patient for his inability to heal normally, Healer Malfoy?”

Draco’s mouth snaps shut. The fingers in his robes pocket clench. And he really wants to hex the sodding smug look out of Heathers’ infuriating, deprecating face. “Of course not, Healer Heathers. I was merely suggesting that—”

“I did not transfer Mr. Potter’s care to you because of your adept ability to perform routine spells, Healer Malfoy. If I wanted so little as that I would have handed him over to some of the overly-eager trainees who turned into an open-mouthed school of fish when he arrived,” a flash of red and a brighter blue, and the wriggling hair-like things on the patient’s arm start to withdraw into the skin. Heathers makes a soft approving noise at the back of his throat and finally turns to face Draco, mouth turned down into a disapproving frown that Draco was more than familiar with. “You are in Dark Arts Reversal. You are expected to think in the, out of, across, over and around the box, and to do the complex and the unexpected,” he pauses, an almost thoughtful gaze sweeping across Draco’s face, “There must be something in that mind of yours that made them accept you into the DAR program. And successfully complete it, might I add.”

For a moment, Draco is stunned. And then feels like he has completely lost the plot.

“I expect to hear some progress soon, Healer Malfoy,” he says with a raised brow before turning his back on Draco and striding away with a flurry of lime green robes. Then he throws him a look and, loud enough to catch the attention of people passing by, he says, “We wouldn’t want the Saviour of the Wizarding World dying under your watch, do we? The consequences, you understand, would be, to say the least, unpleasant. Especially given your... history.”

Draco feels a rush of heat spread to his face and to the center of his chest as curious on-lookers turn to look at him with wide eyes, and it is all he can do to push back the sudden, suffocating wave of hatred that has suddenly caught hold over him.

He cannot decide how, in Merlin’s name, Heathers can compliment and insult and threaten him all at the same sodding time, but either way he’s certain of one thing—he really fucking _hates_ the bastard.

   


~:~:~:~:~

  
 

By the time he reaches Potter’s room, Draco is irritated and annoyed and is in no state to hold civil conversation. But of course Potter being _Potter_ , carries on with conversation like he always does whenever Draco stops by during rounds, paying no mind to the subtle clues that points to his Healer being in a completely sour mood.

“What day is it?”

Draco takes a few seconds to compose himself; starting his inspection with images of smirking, irksome, know-it-all Healers that make his blood boil would not do him, nor Potter, any good.

“Today’s the 15th,” Draco supplies.

“Oh Merlin,” Potter groans.

Draco’s gaze sharpens. “What is it?” he asks, his eyes sweeping over Harry’s body for a sign of anything alarming, “Does something hurt?”

“No. Nothing, sorry. I just— I missed Ginny’s birthday.”

Draco pauses, fights the urge to roll his eyes, and gets on with his survey. Red. Orange. Flicker.

Potter sighs. “I promised that I would be there this time.”

His hand wavers.

“She’s going to kill me.”

Draco watches as Potter’s chest glows red again. He doesn’t know why Potter thinks it crucial to share this information with him and he knows he shouldn’t rise to the bait but still, he answers, “If she wanted to kill you she would have done so while you were sleeping. But given the numerous times she was presented with the opportunity, I’d wager she wants you alive.”

“Ginny was here?” Potter asks, surprised.

Draco nods. He looks at the violent streak running to Potter’s left hip and makes a small noise of discontent.

“When?”

“Yesterday. The day before that,” he mutters, “Sometimes alone. Other times she’s with your sidekicks. All of those times you were drooling in your sleep.”

“My sideki—” Potter pauses, frowns, his gaze becomes reproving, “Don’t call Ron and Hermione that,” a hand sweeps up to wipe the side of his mouth distractedly, “And I don’t drool.”

_Swish. Wave. Flick._

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Potter frowns, slightly put-out.

“Forgive me if I have no desire to go near your saliva-infested pillow, Potter. And one would think that you know about the drool by now.”

“My... Oh for fuck’s sake, I don’t drool,” Potter scowls, but he flushes all the same and Draco bites back a smug grin, “And I meant about them visiting.”

“I am your Healer,” Draco says wryly, “Not your secretary.”

“Or you could have woken me up,” he presses on, “It would have been nice to see them.”

Draco wonders if it would be worth it to install a blaring charm to activate when any red-head steps into Potter’s room just to shut him up (and irritate him as fuck honestly, because that would include Apprentice Pensley as well) but then his gaze falls to the dark line running along Potter’s stomach and hips, and he thinks the better of it.

He ignores Potter’s disgruntled mumbling, gives his wand a final wave, and nods. “Everything seems to be in order. I’ll check on you later.”

Draco turns, his robes whipping behind him, and then he stops. His arm tingles as he eyes the hand that is suddenly tugging on his sleeve.

“What’s wrong?”

Draco considers the question, tilting his head to side thoughtfully. “Well, apart from that nasty gash across your torso, that hideous eyesight could do with—”

“Not with me, idiot,” says Potter, just about stopping himself from rolling his eyes.

Potter’s grip on his robes tightens and Draco struggles to ignore the sudden twisty-feeling in his stomach at the unexpected touch, and the almost-kind tone that Potter has never used on him before. He doesn’t like how his body’s reacting so strangely to something so inconsequential but he has no idea what to do about it. Prat’s probably doing it on purpose anyway, “What are you on about?”

“You’re acting odd,” Potter observes, “Well, stranger than you normally do.”

Draco lifts an eyebrow, pushing aside the disconcerting something that has crept up from his arm and his stomach to his chest. “Thank you for that assessment. I’ll make sure to stop by Spell Damage after rounds.”

Potter’s frown deepens and he eyes him curiously. “Malfoy?”

Draco hesitates. He is not sure why he’s suddenly irritated and annoyed but he is certain that whatever the reason, it has something to do with the worrisome, warm, twisty something currently lodged in his innards, and he knows that it cannot mean well for him. He is also absolutely positive that he cannot tell Potter any of that no matter the amount of curiosity and interest or bright green eyes are directed his way. So he resolves to just shake his head, figure it out when he actually has time for what he is sure to be an impending upturn in his solid, soothing routine, and sighs. “Get some rest. I’ll be back later.”

“Are you—” Potter pauses, sighs, and then simply closes his eyes and nods, “Yes, alright.”

This time when Draco turns to leave, he lets him.

  


~:~:~:~:~

  
 

He couldn’t really remember it, but Draco knows he was having a rather fascinating dream involving a slab of butter, a pair of trainers, and some big, round, blue something that was doing a particularly spectacular job at creating a god-awful mess of his sitting room. The dream was but a blurry, indistinct memory now though, as the resounding crackle of a fire call rouses him from his sleep.

Let it be known that Draco Malfoy does not take kindly to a sudden rendezvous by his fireplace at two in the _bloody_ morning.

It is therefore with a scowl on his face that he drags himself off his bed, puts on his robes, and tiptoes around the lump of a thing that was Gunther to see who the bloody fucker was. It didn’t make it any better that the voice— voices?— is particularly loud and exasperatingly familiar and Draco seriously considers just ignoring the call and slumping back to bed.

He is greeted with the sight of Weasley and Granger, squished side-by-side, as the flames distorts their faces. He rubs a hand over his face wearily. “Have you no concept of the word ‘sleep’?”

Weasley raises an eyebrow at him, his face disfigured in Draco’s fireplace. Not that it needed any more distorting. “Someone’s in a right state.”

Draco does not even bother to hide the scowl that erupts so readily on his face, nor the trickle of annoyance and contempt in his tone. He is able to deal with Weasley well enough when he is fully awake and dressed appropriately, at an acceptable hour, but asking him to show even the smallest amount of courtesy to the git at an atrocious hour, in his bed clothes, after being rudely awakened, is pushing it. “Forgive me if I don’t find seeing a Weasley and a Weasley-to-be particularly thrilling at two in the morning.”

Granger rolls her eyes, trying to look unperturbed but really, the sudden flush in her cheeks is a dead giveaway. “It’s not particularly thrilling on our side either, Malfoy.”

Draco makes an impatient noise with his tongue, “What is it then?”

“We found something,” says Weasley, a little smug.

“Yes, well, we think we found something,” Granger corrects him.

Draco raises an eyebrow. He can’t help the grudging admiration he suddenly feels for the two tosspots but he supposes if it was someone he loved who is in the same predicament as Potter, he wouldn’t be able to control his own enthusiasm in finding something that could potentially help, and he wouldn’t really oppose to trespassing someone’s hospitality at two in the morning to impart the knowledge either.

Even if that someone is someone he has disliked for most of his school years.

Granger pauses, eyeing Weasley with unmistakeable pride and something else that makes Draco slightly uncomfortable, “Actually, it was Ron who thought of it.”

Weasley gives her a huge grin. “Always the tone of surprise.”

Draco clears his throat, both to will away the irritation and to suppress the urge to vomit. He knows it’s slightly childish of him but despite his earlier realization, he couldn’t really fend off the indignation that they had to do this when he had been happily resting on his soft bed. “And it couldn’t have waited ‘till later? When I’m properly awake, dressed, fed, and coffee-sated?”

“Someone was a bit, er, excited,” Weasley mutters, “Ow! Blimey, ‘Mione,” Draco’s lips twitch as Granger sends a painful looking blow to Weasel’s ribs.

Biting back a sigh at the mess he put himself in, Draco silently mourns abandoning his warm, warm, bed in favour of the unwanted company of two blighters who thought it alright to stir him awake at such an ungodly hour. Despite his better judgement, he moves aside, and in one sweeping gesture, he says contemptuously, “Go on, then.”

 

  
~:~:~:~:~

  
 

“So you’re suggesting... that Potter’s been poisoned? By a spell?”

“Not poisoned, per se,” Granger says with a level of patience that Draco grudgingly admires.

It’s now three-something in the morning and the three of them make for unlikely company as they sit round his table with steaming cups of coffee (tea for Granger). He’s not surprised that Gunther has yet to make an appearance— lazy bird must be invading his bed right now— and he’d really rather keep it that way. Granger has just finished re-telling a rather fascinating albeit horrendous tale and he’s still wrapping his mind around the idea that they might finally come up with a solution to Potter’s problem.

Draco takes a small sip from his cup, relishing the way the hot liquid trails down his throat. His free fingers tap lightly on the wooden table and he fixes tired eyes on Granger as he echoes Granger’s words with a sigh. “Per se.”

Granger leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table. Draco can see Weasley inspect the contents of his teacup warily, as if he expects something to jump from it, before he takes a testing sip.

“ _Volnus Venenum_ ,” Granger says, eyes bright with barely concealed excitement. Draco wonders if she’s always this way when she stumbles upon some new, interesting information. With the way Weasley seems unperturbed, he suspects it’s always been like this. “It’s under the category of cutting spells but I’ve looked it up and it’s part of the list of prohibited spells that the Ministry keeps under careful sanction. It’s a violation under the law to perform it on civilians and during legally approved duels, and has been for more than a few decades.”

“Wound. Poison.” Draco translates thoughtfully, pauses, then something clicks.

Granger nods her head once. “If done properly, the spell mimics something like venom so that the skin is prevented from closing. The curious thing is, the venom is restricted to the incision so that the only real cause of death is not poison but—”

“Blood loss,” Weasley pipes in, something akin to disgust present on his face.

“A slow, painful death,” Draco frowns and mutters under his breath, “Brilliant.”

“How is that in any way _brilliant_ , Malfoy?” Weasley asks, eyeing Draco warily over his cup.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Weasley,” Draco sighs, ignoring the indignant noise that spews from Weasley’s mouth, and rubs his eyes— he’s tired and he still has an early day ahead of him but it looks as though whatever sleep he has managed to have will be all the sleep that he will get. “It is brilliant. It’s appalling, yes, but still ingenious.”

Weasley still looks at him as if he has three heads, and Draco wisely chooses to ignore this.

He toys with the rim of his bright yellow mug, the big bold words _Blow me, I’m hot_ , facing him, and he has to stop the wry smile that always forms as he’s reminded of the day that Pansy gifted him the said mug. He wonders what Pansy would think if she were to suddenly show up at his fireplace right now, as she is wont to do at strange hours of the day.

Distractedly, Draco thinks of the sheer volume of strange people that are currently in his life and he wonders if there’s a limit to strangeness that a person can tolerate. He thinks if there is, he has been badly misinformed. As always.

He shakes his head— thoughts of poison and cuts and scar-head idiots and ridiculous mugs still swimming in his mind. “The amount of sheer luck that Potter has is still beyond me.”

Granger makes what Draco interprets as an agreeable little hum as she sips on her tea. She looks thoughtful but shaken, and Draco thinks he has some idea as to what exactly is going through her head right now. “If that curse wasn’t partially deflected...”

“Exactly,” Draco finishes, leans back on his chair, and ignores the dull throb that has curiously appeared in his chest.

He thinks of Granger’s story about Arthur Weasley, and forms a shaky little picture in his brain of what he now knows and what he thinks he needs to do. An odd, almost horrified expression takes over his face. “Did they really try to _sew_ the skin back together?”

Weasley looks at him gravely. “They did. Mum was livid. I don’t know who she was angrier with— Dad, his Healer, or the Healer’s Apprentice,” he scratches the side of nose, then rests both elbows on the table with a thoughtful frown on his face, “I still don’t know what Dad was thinking.”

Draco thinks he will never truly understand Muggles. But he supposes that whatever his thoughts on Muggles, these are highly irrelevant on the issue at hand.

“Do you think it would work?” Granger asks.

“Would what work?”

“What they did to heal Arthur,” she says, curiosity and apprehension bright on her face. “Do you think that would work on Harry as well?”

“I suppose... with some modifications,” Draco says slowly, taking in the hopeful expression on her face. “After all, Potter hasn’t really been bitten by a snake. It’s just a spell mimicking the venom’s effects, as you’ve said earlier, Granger.”

Granger looks at him, and Draco finds that he’s more troubled by the fact that he’s so used to her searching gaze by now than by the actual gaze itself, that it’s slightly worrying. Finally, she nods. “Alright. What do we have to do, then?”

Draco blinks. “Pardon?”

“What do we have to do?” Granger repeats herself, and when he shows no sign of answering her anytime soon her gaze turns piercing. Draco has to stop himself from sliding down a couple of notches in his seat. “You don’t expect us to just have you do everything by yourself, do you?” And just when Draco is about to say that he is perfectly capable of doing what needs to be done, thank you very much, Granger says in a surprisingly softer tone— almost as if she knew that Draco has taken her words the wrong way, “We offered to help you, Draco, and we will.”

He stares at her, suddenly feeling slightly off-balanced, then looks at Weasley who pins him with a similar sort of expectant gaze and all Draco can do is finish what’s left of his coffee.

“She’s right,” Weasley affirms, mouth set in a firm line that mirrors his tone. Draco pretends not to see the way Weasley’s fingers curl around Granger’s on the table top.

“Right,” he says faintly. Draco shakes himself and pushes away from the table. There have been stranger things that have happened in his life, he supposes. He starts towards the door, not completely certain whether his two intruders will follow him. The sound of chairs scraping against the tiled floor does not disappoint.

“Where are we going?” Weasley’s voice drifts from behind him.

“To the lab.”

“The lab? Like, a potions lab?” he asks, and Draco regains a sense of normalcy, almost smiling at the sound of his baffled voice. “He has a lab _here_?” he hears him mutter in an undertone to Granger.

“Yes, Weasley. I believe you’ve seen one before.”

“What are— we’re seriously brewing potions at this hour in the morning? Why?”

Draco turns and raises an eyebrow, as if to say _You are the ones who showed up at my house at_ two _in the bloody morning,_ and _Yes, seriously, because I sodding said so_. He is satisfied to see the both of them looking sufficiently chastised and no more irrelevant questions are asked after that, which is just as well.

The night is still young, and they have a lot of work to do.

   


~:~:~:~:~

   


_There it is_ , Draco thinks as he watches the violent purple light transform into a murky green.

He is slightly frustrated at himself for not bothering with his particular diagnostic spell, but in his defense it wasn’t standard protocol— at least not on this floor. And Potter wasn’t brought in for a snake bite so Draco really couldn’t be faulted for overlooking this. He knows these are all flimsy excuses but the bubble of energy he felt this morning at finally having a concrete plan has dimmed somewhat. He’s a bit stingy that Granger and Weasley happened to be correct on their presumption, even though a part of him is grudgingly thankful and relieved at finally having a proper diagnosis to work on.

Of course, having your father’s chest almost ripped open by the Dark Lord’s familiar as inspiration to even consider something like _Volnus Venenum_ could have given Weasley quite a bit of an advantage, or something to that effect, but Draco doesn’t envy him having that particular experience.

“That’s it?”

Potter’s voice breaks his line of thought and his eyes focus again on the glowing cut, chest to hip. There, under the green light, traces of venom line the cut that is for now closed. He has explained most of the concept of _Volnus Venenum_ to Potter, and he has surprisingly been very accommodating with only a few nods and questions in between explanations.

Draco almost forgot how he’s irritated by the mere sight of his face.

“Venom,” Draco confirms. “I’ll just put you under a few more tests to determine the composition and from there we can determine the appropriate anti-venom that will be employed with the combination therapy—”

“In English, please, Malfoy.”

Draco narrows his eyes, but his annoyed expression is met with nothing more than amused interest. He has this nagging thought that Potter was enjoying this far more than he should be. He stops himself from huffing like a little child. “I will give you potions to drink and to place on your wound, and then I’ll wave my wand a few times, and then hopefully you’ll stop being a blood fountain when you move. Simple enough?”

Potter’s lips quiver, and then he breaks, “Quite.” He gives Draco a ridiculously large smile that overflows with good humour and amusement, which Draco successfully ignores as he waves his wand and sets Potter’s robes to rights.

As Draco leaves the room with his perfunctory spiel, he hears the smile in Potter’s response. _No_ , he tells himself, no, he most definitely does not feel pleased at all.

   


~:~:~:~:~

  
 

“—know I love you—”

Draco’s hand pauses on the handle of the door.

He shouldn’t be listening, he knows that it’s bad form, and he of all people should know how eavesdropping can only bring grievance but he still brings his ear closer to the gap on the doorframe.

“And I love you,” the Weasele—Weasley girl says in a surprisingly exasperated but fond tone. Draco clutches knob tighter. “But that’s not really a valid argument here Harry, considering how you’re the one who—”

“I know,” Potter cuts her off, sounding both exasperated and guilt-ridden at the same time. “I know I was the one who brought it up but it was a mutual decision, as you’d like to remind me time and again. And I know you said we were fine but... I...”

A slight pause, a quiet shuffle, and then, “Oh, Harry, we’re fine. Idiot. Would I be here otherwise?”

“Yes,” answers Potter’s quiet but amused voice after a brief pause.

“Well, it’s good to know that your self-esteem seems entirely intact despite the rest of your body being otherwise,” girl-Weasley says after a short sound of laughter. “Cocky bastard.”

Potter chuckles, and then a brief lapse of noise almost has Draco peeling himself away from the door but of course, Potter just has to speak again and capture Draco’s attention. “As long as he makes you happy, Gin.”

Draco is slightly discomfited by the way he can’t seem to dislodge himself from his position beside the door. And he is more than a little horrified by the way something springs up near his chest and nose-dives back down into his stomach.

_Tug._

His fingers tighten their hold, and he ignores the odd sensation in his midsection.

He really should stop listening. He should leave now and just come back later when the Weasley girl is gone, and his chest isn’t attempting to land him in a hospital bed of his own.

“—worry so much. I’m sure it’s not good for your health. If Malfoy gets wind of my tiring you out, he may very well hex my hair off.”

“Doubt it. You haven’t tired me out since we—“

“Oh shut up, Harry,” a quiet, flustered-sounding murmur, and Draco loathes himself for pressing his ear firmer against the crack on the door. “I’d hit you right now if that wouldn’t have the potential to kill you.”

“Hmm,” he hears Potter hum, “No, you wouldn’t. Not if you want to keep the rest of your hair in place.”

They were idiots. The both of them. And so was Draco, for even listening in on that conversation that he still doesn’t quite know what to do with or feel about. With an inward sigh, Draco shakes his head and steps through the door, deciding to mediate before any unnecessary blood is spilled.

And if Ginevra Weasley hits him with a stinging hex for turning her hair green, well, he thinks that Potter’s delighted laughter more than makes up for it.

  


~:~:~:~:~

  
 

“What is that god-awful smell?”

Draco does not break count in his head, and when he reaches five he stirs twice anti-clockwise, then adds one clockwise stir. He gently draws in the fumes with a wave of his hand and gives a pleased hum when everything seems to be in proper order.

“Anti-venom,” he answers, finally turning around to see Pansy Parkinson tinkering with one of the bottles on the shelf in the far end of the room.

“Ah. The Potter potion’s done, is it?”

Draco rolls his eyes, amused, as he waves his wand and casts a stasis over the simmering cauldron. “Not quite, but it’s getting there.”

“Are you?” Pansy says, gaze piercing and questioning, completely incongruent with her off-handed tone. “Getting there?” She never was one to make small talk, and in some ways, Draco has learned to appreciate how she is always straight to the point.

“I don’t even know what ‘there’ you’re pertaining to,” Draco answers, exasperated at the back-and-forth they seem to have settled on ever since Pansy has heard news of his new (in)famous patient. He doesn’t know how they’re able to talk about something without talking about it at all, but it’s one aspect of their friendship that he has long since learned to just accept and live with.

Pansy shrugs— a carefully disinterested expression is on her face but Draco knows better. He sees the gleaming curiosity as she eyes him over the book she has brought down the shelf and is currently pretending to peruse. “I’m just saying, Draco, dear. The opportunity is there, waving its bare bottom in front of you. It would be a shame if you just ignore it just because of some absurd rule about not shagging your—”

“I would appreciate you minding your own business, thank you very much.”

Pansy raises an eyebrow, a flicker of a smirk finally making its way through. “Oh. _Oh_ dear.”

“What?” Draco says, brow furrowed.

“He’s already caught you, hasn’t he?”

Draco blinks, a worrying feeling in his stomach nosedives and catches him unawares and he has to stop himself from spluttering. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“ _Oh_ , Draco,” Pansy sighs, shaking her head almost as if she understood. Though what she had understood, Draco has entirely no clue. “It’s alright. You never stood a chance. You never were able to shut up about him. And now he’s just _there_ and all friendly... it’s alright. We’ll figure it out.”

“Figure—what?”

Pansy shuffles closer, takes one of his hands in hers, and gives him a particularly ingratiating smile. Draco has to stop himself from hexing the thing off her face. “I always had an inkling but of course I ignored it then. I mean, almost everyone’s had _something_ for that mess of hair after all— must be the hero thing and all,” she mutters the latter part with a small shrug, “And it’s _fine_. I thought that was all it was but now it’s painfully clear how enamoured you are with—”

“Wait, wait, hold on. What on earth are you talking about, Pans?” Draco says, a little worried now and just a bit indignant.

Pansy sends him a knowing look and sighs, obviously exasperated. Patience never was her strong suit. “Potter, of course.”

Unwillingly, the name forces him to recall the bright smile that Harry gave him this afternoon when he passed by his room on his way home, and he has to stop himself feeling all guilty at something as simple and innocent as that. There was nothing wrong with checking on his patient and stopping by to chat for a few minutes. Of course, a few minutes turned to a little more than that and when he left it was well into nightfall, with Granger shooing him home to eat dinner and to get some rest before starting on the set of potions for Potter. He still feels a bit guilty about that now but the guilt is meshed up with a warm, almost sickening feeling of contentment that Draco has shoved into the back of his mind before he started brewing, and he does not appreciate how Pansy seems to be drawing out all these little feelings that he has done so well ignoring until now.

_Tug._

The odd tugging in his stomach did that pulling thing again.

“What about Potter?”

She gestures her hands in an indistinguishable, standoffish way and shrugs, “Oh you know, you and that horrible fascination of yours with the Chosen Hero.”

“I do not have a _horrible fascination_ ,” Draco says, part indignant and mostly mortified.

“Alright,” Pansy says, too easily, before she follows with a, “Do you prefer fancy? Or perhaps obsession? Crush? No, that’s terribly plebeian, isn’t it? How about—”

Draco lowers the flames under the cauldron and, content with its consistency, proceeds to completely turning it off. It was suddenly too hot anyway.

He heads off up the stairs with Pansy following a step behind, still providing him with all kinds of synonyms that seem to just get worse and worse.

“—Liking? Partiality? Fixation? _Paramour_?

“Oh for the love of— shut it, Pans,” Draco snaps, stopping abruptly and Pansy all but knocks herself into his back.

Pansy holds up her hands in mock surrender but she was still far too smug for Draco’s liking. Draco sighs, heads to the kitchen and delves straight to the teapot. He briefly considers something stronger but quickly shoots the idea down. It seems like something that would only further validate Pansy’s suspicions and he does not have the energy for a discussion about something like that. Not when he has a hero to save.

He knows that his friend only means well, but really, she should know when to leave well enough alone. Draco can fight his own battles... or choose which battles to fight in the first place. And right now, Harry Potter just seemed too much for him to handle, loathe as he was to admit it to himself.

Gunther pops into appearance and stares at the two of them. Draco thinks he might look disapproving but he ignores him in favour of pouring tea for himself and Pansy.

“You like him,” Pansy sounds accusatory and Draco knows better than to feed her ammunition. Still, he feels the need to defend himself.

“He’s my patient,” he says slowly, “I tolerate him at best.”

He knows that she doesn’t believe him— her pointed look and silence says as much. For a few minutes they sip their tea in a companionable silence. The peace lasts too short and the next words out of Pansy’s mouth make Draco uncomfortable but the tiny, abashed and guilty part of him appreciates the offered consolation nonetheless.

“I won’t care. Whatever happens. Whatever you decide. You know that.”

Draco doesn’t know what to do with that. So he stands there sipping his tea with Pansy leaning against his side, a comfortable weight against him, as they watch Gunther hobble around before he falls down the tiled floor with a plop.

He knows that everything in his life has always been difficult in varying ways. He can only hope that, whatever may or may not happen, it’d be as easy as Pansy makes it out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've planned this fic to be in 4 parts, actually. Here's to hoping the next chapter won't take too long. Tell me what you think!:D

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter series and all it's canon characters belong to JK Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.


End file.
